


Limoncello

by FereldenTurnip



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Jealousy, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26486998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FereldenTurnip/pseuds/FereldenTurnip
Summary: “Bello...” Nicky whispers in the air between them. Joe moans as Nicky pulls his finger out, catching it on his lower lip. Next he’s wrapping his arms around his shoulders, gripping the back of the couch behind Joe’s head. “Bello-” he kisses Joe’s forehead. “Bello-” cheek. “Bello-” his nose. Nicky drags his lips over his freckles, over his eyelids, like a benediction.---Nicky's been in the Limoncello again. Joe's anticipating how this will end.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 19
Kudos: 342





	Limoncello

Nicky is drunk on homemade limoncello again. 

They are alone, for once. Nile and Andy are out enjoying the last rays of sunshine as it sets over Palermo. They aren’t expected back anytime soon and now is as good a time as any to enjoy a cold beverage. 

Joe takes the rare opportunity to lounge out on their couch like a content, lazy cat. He’s sipping neatly from his own glass every now and then, taking it slow (slower than Nicky at least). This is, what?--Nicky’s fourth glass to Joe’s second? 

The crystal cup is too small to hide his grin, nor the crinkles sticking in the corners of his eyes. Nicky doesn’t notice. He’s too busy whirling around the living room barefooted, pacing back and forth on the worn rug. Damn threadbare thing has to be older than this apartment. Joe’s mind is fuzzy, yet he’s certain Andy bought it back in the 70′s (which century though?).

Nicky’s hands are gesticulating faster than he can articulate his all-Italian vitriol. He’s sloshing drops of limoncello over his hand and down his wrist. Joe wants to press his lips to his pulse point and catch the droplets on his tongue. 

“Disgraziato! C-cazzo!”

“Uh-uh,” Joe sing-songed. “Language, habibi!” 

Nicky keeps going as if he never heard him. He probably hasn’t. Who is it this time? Ah, yes, Leonardo! Joe chuckles. He remembers the eccentric man. Well, more like he remembers  _ the heat  _ from Nicoló’s eyes warming the back of Joe’s head whenever Leonardo beckoned him over to the studio for another sculpture, another painting, another  _ ‘Per favore! Per favore, Giuseppe!’  _

Nicky stoic as usual, took it like a champ. Leonardo was just another suitor in a long line all clamoring for Joe’s attention. Joe himself finds the fawning amusing each time, even when the tables are reversed. Besides, the sex when they got back to their flat was worth being the sole two muses during the Italian Renaissance.

Now? Now Nicky’s had a little too much to drink. It never fails to bring these memories to the forefront in full technicolour view. He’s winding himself up so much that he’s got That Flush blossoming down his neck. The one that makes Joe groan and adjust his pants. He knows exactly how this diatribe will end because this isn’t the first time (and Joe prays it won’t be the last either). Limoncello will do that to Nicky--put him in a fussy, jealous snit. Get him so riled he’s going to end up with his arms wrapped around Joe, his hips rocking down on his cock, and his teeth marking bruises into his neck. 

The anticipation already has his legs splayed and his neck barred for the taking. He’s ready when Nicky takes that last sip and lands sloppily into Joe’s lap. Without taking his eyes off this feast, Joe extracts the glass and sets it down on the side table next to his own abandoned drink. 

The clinking noise makes Nicky blink in surprise, “Oh! Yusuf!” Another blink. The befuddled expression doesn’t last for long. A second later and his lips are stretching into a sweet smile. His tongue is doing that thing where it’s caught on the bottom lip. He can’t seem to look away from Joe, like he’s the only person left existing in this world. All thoughts of long-dead Renaissance men gone with the last dregs of alcohol.

Nicky’s hand is sticky with limoncello. Joe sucks his index finger into his mouth, swirls his tongue around the digit and tastes fresh Sicilian lemons and  _ Nicky _ . His lover’s green eyes widen with lust and liqueur. His lips are so wet and  _ so very _ red. He’s leaning down over Joe’s face, his sweaty fringe tickling his forehead.

“Bello...” Nicky whispers in the air between them. Joe moans as Nicky pulls his finger out, catching it on his lower lip. Next he’s wrapping his arms around his shoulders, gripping the back of the couch behind Joe’s head. “Bello-” he kisses Joe’s forehead. “Bello-” cheek. “Bello-” his nose. Nicky drags his lips over his freckles, over his eyelids, like a benediction. 

He’s skipping his mouth entirely and if the tiny smirk is any indication, Joe knows he’s doing it on purpose. He’s achingly hard now. He switches from digging his hands into Nicky’s waist to squeezing his muscled thighs where they’re bracketing Joe’s hips. Back and forth, he can never get enough of Nicky, tease though he may be.

His hips start to undulate against Joe’s in a slow, maddening roll. Nicky’s just as hard as he is. The press, the friction, makes them both hiss. “Bello, mio amore!” Joe snaps like a burst dam. He chases that sweet whine to its source and slots their mouths together at long last. 

It’s wet. It’s messy. It’s lemony sweet. 

Joe’s now got both hands slipped into the back of Nicky’s trousers. His tongue is down his throat as he grips handfuls of his ass and tugs him forward onto his stiff cock. Nicky alternates between panting and licking into Joe’s hot mouth. That delightful flush is spreading down, down, down beneath the neckline of his t-shirt. Joe’s eyes track it over his bobbing adam’s apple. They rut like dogs in heat but it’s just not enough, trapped as they are.

Nicky’s the first to paw at their belts and buckles. Joe squeezes his ass one last time before helping them both shimmy their trousers and pants out of the way. Immediately, Joe wraps both of them into his hands. His long, fine fingers make art of this as surely as he does with paint and a brush. Or better yet, an instrument for Joe to coax beautiful music out of. At the first touch to his cock, Nicky throws his head back and moans wantonly. He slides them together, setting a slow, even pace.  _ Two can play this game, Nicoló _ ... 

“J-Joe!” The torturous pace sends Nicky’s hands scrambling. He latches onto Joe’s shoulders, then snake-crawls his arms around his neck again. They don’t stay on the couch this time, instead he winds his fingers into Joe’s thick hair and  _ yanks _ . He’s got That Look in his eye--and  _ yesss _ \--this is what Joe’s been waiting for! He chuckles, wicked, and lets Nicky pull his head back to expose the long line of his neck. As a reward, Joe twists his hand just how Nicky likes it. He rubs his thumb over the top of his cockhead where pre-come is leaking copiously over the sensitive gland. 

He’s suddenly struck dumb at the current situation: here he is sprawled on this ratty couch with his cock out and head tipped back while his husband shamelessly writhes away on top of him. There’s a hooded expression on Nicky’s face and no other word can describe it except for  _ hunger _ . Joe is a feast and Nicky is famished. Joe raises his eyebrows, his eyes silently begging.

_ Go on. Go on and take all of me. I am yours now until time turns our bodies into dust and scatters us to all corners of this earth. _

Nicky huffs, “Incurable romantic!” Of course Nicky knows exactly what he’s trying to say. He’s listened to Joe spew poem after poem, ballads and odes dedicated entirely to Nicky for almost a thousand years now. Their language need not be spoken out loud for them to hear it. 

Joe makes a kissy face. Nicky smirks. It’s a warning. 

Joe bites off an embarrassingly loud moan as Nicky ducks and goes to town. These hickies don’t last, not with their immortal gifts, but he’ll be damned if Nicoló di Genova ever half-asses anything. 

He starts with teeth. Then he sucks the sore skin hard, laps at it with playful tongue. Rinse & repeat. All across Joe’s neck, from right to left, top to bottom. 

Joe is a writhing mess by about half-way through. His skin is electrified and tingling from a constant loop of pain, pleasure, bruising, healing bombarding his collective senses. One particular suck has Joe arching hard enough to jostle Nicky. The little shit just  _ snickers _ . Meanwhile, his cock twitches and weeps over the both of them. His hands are slick enough but his strokes are coming uneven, he knows it. Nicky takes pity on him and lends him a helping hand. Their fingers naturally tangle together as they jerk each other off.

Nicky isn’t through with Joe, not yet. He drags his mouth down his neck, his teeth nipping here and there. He still smells like lemons. There’s a sensitive spot behind Joe’s right ear that when Nicky bites it just right he has him seeing stars. Thank God no one is around to hear their racket! 

The bites are quickly turning sharp, little buzzing stings--Nicky is close, then. Yeah, Joe can hear it in his hitched breathing. Their hands quicken and both begin rocking in tandem towards the finish line. 

Pleasure crests in Joe first. He breathes deep and lets it rush out in a low wail that takes him by surprise. His eyes squeeze shut against the white-gold light sparking behind his eyelids. He trembles all over, the first pulse of come leaping over their hands and cocks. He feels Nicky’s thighs tense, then he’s saying Joe’s name and coming too. He buries his whimpers in between Joe’s shoulder and the couch. 

They gasp for breath--gulping pants that eventually simmer down into soft puffs. Finally, they’re just melted and gooey. 

Someone groans. Joe’s not sure who. Maybe both of them? His hand is rubbing up and down Nicky’s hunched back (when did that happen?). His shirt feels clammy with sweat. They never even bothered with the rest of their clothes. Nicky's content with nuzzling his nose behind Joe’s ear. Right over that damned spot and it makes Joe’s leg spasm. 

In due time they sit up. Nicky’s still flushed, but in that sated, just-been-fucked kind of way Joe’s committed to paper several hundred times before. His clothes and hair are rumpled. He’d look adorable if it weren’t for his softening cock sticking out of his fly. Joe cracks a laugh at him (albeit he’s pretty sure he fairs no better). Nicky, his green eyes still wicked bright, just brings his hand to his mouth and starts licking up their combined mess. The laugh dies in Joe’s throat. He gulps, mouth suddenly dry. Now Nicky’s the one laughing.  _ Little shit…  _ He’s considering throwing him across his legs and spanking him--

That’s decisively when the front lock clicks and the door swings open. 

“Hey guys we’re baAACK! Oh--OH my GOD!”

“Wow, you two couldn’t take it to your room? You had to do it on my couch?”

“Just--Jeez. You. You both--we SIT THERE--”

“It was the limoncello, again, wasn’t it?” 

Shame is not in their vocabulary. Nicky simply smirks like the cat who ate the canary  _ and _ drank the cream. Joe pinches his bare bum and winks at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I wanted to showcase drunk!Nicky, who needs more love in this amazing fandom.
> 
> Originally crossposted to my tumblr (same name), complete with art. This isn't beta-read but I would greatly appreciate one.


End file.
